On Discovering Addison, TX

I don't have the faintest idea why, but so far this year, my blog has received 64 visits from the town of Addison, TX.

I'm fairly certain I don't know anyone in Addison, TX, but if I do, I'd sure like to know about it.

So here's what I can glean about Addison, TX from its website:

1. The Town of Addison is near Dallas.


2. The Town of Addison is located in an area once called Peters Colony. It was settled as early as 1846 when Preston Witt built a house on White Rock Creek.


3. In 1902, the first industry was introduced to Addison when a cotton gin was built on Addison Road, near the railroad, by the Pistole brothers.


4. Located on Belt Line Road is the Addison School Building which was built in 1914. In 1954, the school was annexed and became a part of the Dallas Independent School District. The school, which was closed in 1964 (the year, by the way, I was born), now serves as the Addison Magic Time Machine Restaurant.


5. Addison is the home of The WaterTower Theatre Company.


6. Addison is also the home of my unsung visitor, apparently.

Come on, Addison. Talk. Who are you?

On Getting Out

Needless to say, I've been spending a lot of time at home, lately.

The LGBT networking group at The Velvet Prison scored big when, as one of the lead sponsors of Lincoln Center's Midsummer Night Swing dance series, The Prison got a mess o' free tickets to the dance night celebrating Gay Pride.

Go Gays!

So I, in turn, scored tickets for myself, Topher and ChickenKurry to attend not just the dance on Lincoln Center's plaza, but also the private cocktail party on the portico overlooking the plaza.

Again, go Gays!

The day was mostly sunny with the occasional cloud, right up until the appointed time of our meeting, at which point the clouds rolled in and the skies opened up, with a nice, steady rain.

We arrived at Lincoln Center to find that our special passes gave us free access to the dance floor from 6:30 to 8 p.m., after which time we'd be admitted to the cocktail party. So, we could dance in the rain for an hour and half, or we could find something to do to entertain ourselves.

We went to eat.

As we went off to eat, of course, the rain cleared up, so we were able to enjoy a repast alfresco at Josephina, across the street from the Center.

Our meal, and the sunshine, lasted just long enough to kill the allotted time, and we hustled back to Lincoln Center as the skies darkened again.

Just in time, we hustled ourselves into Avery Fisher Hall and up to the portico. The rains commenced again, and didn't let up again until, as if on cue, it stopped when Lincoln Center's rent-a-cops gave us the boot at 10 p.m.

Despite the rain, there's just no way to adequately explain how much fun we had. There was free booze, there was great music – thankfully the DJ was covered and no one ended up being electrocuted – and we were surrounded all night by the professional gays of all the companies held by (and, metaphorically, in) The Velvet Prison.

And by professional gays, I don't mean "men who are professionally gay," but "gays who are professional men."

An important distinction.

So anyway, I got to network and meet a lot of lovely people, got liquored off my butt (who knew such a classy joint as Lincoln Center would serve such a cheap red wine?), and watched my friends get hit on almost from the moment we arrived.

No, seriously.

Not one, not two, but three different men approached me on the Q-T to ask, "So, your friend Topher. What's his deal, is he single?" The man literally held court. It was a thing of beauty. ChickenKurry "suffered" a similar fate.

Just Crazy.

And as if all the booze and well-intentioned debauchery weren't enough, when we booted onto the streets, we made a beeline for a local gay boozery.

It's been a wicked long time since I've been to a gay bar, and I have to go only occasionally to be reminded of why I loathe them so. I had a perfectly wretched drunk hetero chick slop the wine I was carrying back to Topher all over my favorite white shirt.

Still, there was something about this time that was different. I was there as a part of a really large group, none of whom were trying to pick up each other or others, so there was no pressure, and no end of conversation. It was really, really cool. Now I know why The Gays like to travel to gay bars in a gaggle.

In any case, I had a really good time, and it was about time I did so.

The only problem, of course, is that I woke up for work the next morning and my first thought was, "Oh crap. I think I'm still drunk."

I'm way too old for that crap.

On Real Estate Porn

Some people get off on watching media in which other humans engage in sexual activity. I don't make judgements about this sort of thing. Though I frankly prefer that sort of activity with another person in the room (preferably actively engaged), I will admit to having seen this sort of thing before.

I, however, love to get excited about something else: Surfing the web for real estate I will likely never be able to afford.

To that end, I subscribe to a couple real estate sites' e-mail newsletters – the type in which search results from the sites appear in your e-mail inbox on a daily basis.

I love this concept, since it means my real estate porn can be delivered to me with minimal effort.

These e-mails usually have enough new listings to pique my interest – there's almost always something new to look at and stoke my breaking of that commandment related to covetousness.

Every once in a while, one of the real estate sites will just get it in its head to really push a particular property. Such is the case, lately, with Prudential's Douglas Elliman agency. This particular listing has been at the top of their daily real estate porn e-mail every day for as long as it's been on the market. I've lost track of how long it's been, but it's gotten to the point where I can't remember not seeing it there.

I'm not sure why this thing isn't selling, but I've got a theory. Take a look at the living room photos on the listing. Any one thinking about purchasing the place must immediately think, "I don't wanna live in the freakin' Taj Mahal."

On Taking the Long Way 'Round

Having discovered that it would actually cost more to have my camera repaired than to buy a newer and better model (well, not exactly more, but close enough as to make it seem a little silly), I made my way this morning to that Bastion of All Things Photographic and Jewishly Orthodox, B&H Photo, to pick up a new camera.

If you're even a dilettante photographer and you someday find yourself wandering the streets of New York City, you owe it to yourself to at least go window shopping at B&H. It's a veritable wonderland of all things electronic. And it's owned and operated by Orthodox Jews who know their electronic shit.

And the place is wicked efficient. I was in and out inside of ten minutes. Granted, I knew what I wanted, but still.

It can be a little overwhelming on your first experience. It's never not packed to the gills, presumably because they do such incredible volume that they offer great deals. But their system of moving you through the process of shopping and buying is mind-bogglingly complex, seemingly chaotic, and beautifully engineered. And everywhere you turn, there's a helpful man in a yarmulke and a vest with a button saying "I'm here to help."

The store's broken up into really painfully specific departments.

Literally, there are separate departments for digital point-and-shoot cameras and digital SLR cameras. I know this to be true because I mistakenly went to the first and needed the second. But in my confusion, one of the friendly staff not only pointed out that I was in the wrong place, but guided me to the right place and handed me off to the customer wrangler in that area.

I sidled up to a counter with about fifteen or so "agents" lined up waiting to help, and had a guy bringing my camera inside of a minute.

Here's the thing, though: You're welcome to try things out, test them, decide if you like them, but the folks at B&H are all about inventory control. You don't get to carry your purchase to the checkout. It's placed on the most bizarre automated transit system ever – like something out of Willy Wonka – and you're handed a print out of your purchases which you take to the cashier. Once you've checked out, you go to merchandise pick-up, where somehow a thundering herd of behind-the-scenes employees have delivered your purchase to the front of the store, bagged it and left it hanging on a hook for the merchandise guy to pick up and hand to you. At every step of the way it's scanned and tracked and checked to within an inch of its life.

Amazing to watch. Truly.

My purchase complete, I stopped off at The Velvet Prison to pick up my lenses and grab the (charged) battery out of my old camera, then wandered around in Central Park for a while.

I know, I know, you think I was up to my old tricks, but that's not the case.

I'll admit that I did sit in Sheep Meadow for a while enjoying the sites, but every time I thought about pulling out the camera and snapping a picture I was overwhelmed by a "been there done that" sorta feeling.

So I hopped the N train down to Union Square and switched to the 4 train down to City Hall.

From there, I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and spent the next four hours walking around DUMBO and Brooklyn Heights.

Walking across the bridge, I was struck by the number of tourists who were there. I suppose it makes complete sense; it's such an iconic landmark that it would be de rigueur. Still, I found myself having to suppress the urge to shout at people who kept walking into my shots. Not terribly neighborly, at all. Thankfully, I succeeded.

I managed a couple of nice enough shots from the bridge. The day was so hazy that it was pointless to shoot anything in the distance. I had a couple of good angles on the Statue of Liberty, but it just looked like a blurry outline on the horizon.

Closer in, though, I did manage some interesting shots from the bridge, like this one of the Clock Tower condo building and the Manhattan Bridge in the background.

Eventually, I managed to make my way down into Dumbo, where I got my favorite shots of the day.

The view from Washington Street in Dumbo is pretty iconic in its own right. More than one famous photographer has chosen this view as a subject, and it's appeared in countless films and TV shows.

So, for your viewing pleasure, my take on this most famous of views:

On Shaving One's Beard

Amsy Dane is in town, and after a couple of failed attempts at getting together – getting together with her always involves a couple of failed attempts (read: I got blown off) – we finally connected last night for dinner and a show.

AD can be a bit of a pain in the ass when it comes to scheduling, but connecting with her always proves to be more than worth the trouble. She's the sweetest of souls, and we have such fun together that I can never remember to be mad at her about the whole being-blown-off thing. It's weird.

During post-show coffee and dessert, she mentioned something about our early days together that I'd completely forgotten about: She used to serve as my beard when attending work functions, like family picnics and holiday parties, that kinda thing. I would always introduce her as my date, never being very committal, as it were, and we'd just have fun and dance the night away.

What I didn't know – and only found out years later – was that during these functions, once we'd been doing them for a while, people would pull her aside and start to grill her on when we were going to get married. Because we'd keep showing up to these things over the years, everyone assumed that, not only were we a couple, but that we were pretty serious if we were still together after a couple years.

Sitting in The Coffee Pot post-show, I was actually bent over, belly-laughing at her recreation of her reaction to these interrogations. I, of course, was oblivious to all this close questioning. I was just the guy going to get drinks and chatting with the other guys. I had no idea that even in Corporate America, girls will be girls and they've gotta dish the boys while they're powdering their noses.

It still makes me laugh to think about it. And it certainly made us laugh last night. We were crying and gasping for breath we were giggling so hard.

So, thanks, AD. I can't believe we've known each other for twenty years. It boggles my mind.

Also in town this weekend was The Agent, who should, truth be told, be more precisely called "The Former Voice-Over Agent From Pittsburgh," but that's just way too long.

I hadn't seen him since my father's funeral, so it was an extra delight when he joined AD & I for dinner, then met up with me after he saw Curtains. We had a couple delightful "martinis" at a cool little joint called 44 South West Ristorante. The bar in the back wasn't at all crowded, the bartendress was delightful, and her cantaloupe martini delicious, if an unfortunately loud proclamation of my homosexuality.

The Agent has been doing quite well for himself, and it's nice to see him fit and happy. He made a very persuasive (if ultimately wasted) argument for living in Pittsburgh, since it's treated him so well.

We finished the evening by strolling from 44th & 9th Avenue up to the southeast corner of Central Park, where I treated myself to a taxi-ride home.

All in all a splendid evening of catching up with people I've foolishly let pass out of my life.

On Serendipity

A trip that I had planned to take in August has fallen through, so I took the opportunity to drop a note to my ex, Mungojerrie, in the hopes that he might be around during that time.

I figured since I already have the time scheduled off at work, I might as well take the opportunity to go back to the 'Burgh and pick up some stuff that's been in storage there since I left in 2001. I can't believe that Mungo and my sister have been so cool as to let me keep my crap in their respective homes all this time.

Mungo wrote me back in record time, and it looks like he's going to be in town then. So I'm going to try to pull it off.

Silly as it is, I'm most looking forward to getting one thing back: My great uncle Joe's drop-front desk.

It's a much less fancy version of this one.

I left it at the house that Mungo and I shared when I we were together, and it's the one piece of furniture I've missed over the years. It's a bit of a wreck, actually. The bottom fell out of the lowest drawer long before I ever got my hands on it, and the side has a crack that runs from bottom to top, but there was always something about that desk that brought me great comfort.

Knowing, perhaps, that it had been in the family even before my grandfather had been born, or that odd smell of old wood and must and Lemon Fresh Pledge that hung over it. Something about that desk made working at it comfortable and comforting; I think I may have done some of the best writing I've ever done in my life at that desk; I kinda hope it wasn't because of the desk, but who knows?

So, anyway, here's hoping it all works out. Wouldn't it be ironic if I got it all the way back to New York and discovered it wasn't the desk, but whatever chair I was working on, that made the whole experience magical?

On Having Photographic Proof

So the pictures have come in from my nephew's wedding, and as I've noted before, I think the photographers did a really, really bang up job. Wow.

I have serious talent envy!

Congrats, kids.

On Being Single

Yesterday I ended my relationship with Fozzie.

I don't want to elaborate further except to say that he's really a great guy, and I hope someday he finds someone who makes him happy.

On Being Well-Insured

I'm sure my mom and dad would have snapped this up in a New York minute, had they only known:

On Being in the Minority

I'm increasingly discovering that I'm part of a much-abused and misunderstood minority.

All things being equal, I prefer a sedentary vacation.

If I'm on vacation that's not a "destination vacation," (i.e., if I'm not going to Paris to explore Paris, or going to Machu Pichu to climb the pyramids) then I just plain don't want to move. I want to sit in the sun and enjoy the stillness. I want to sit on a beach and read a book. Maybe, just maybe, I'll consider dragging out my camera and capturing some images. Maybe. Only if the urge takes me.

There just can't be any plans or schedules. And the first time you come at me with, "Okay, what are we doing? Where are we going? We can't just sit here all day" you're fairly likely to get a pie in the face.

I revel in the stillness. I like the birdsong. I like the sound of the bugs chirping. I like the play of the sunlight through the trees. I'm content. I'm alive to the world around me and keenly aware of my place in it.

Don't fuck with my wa, yo.

On Descent into the Primeval

The Lunts recently bought a little cabin upstate on Queechy Lake, in the biblically-named town of Caanan, New York.

It's been about six months (I'm guessing) since the purchase, but I just haven't had the opportunity to really get up and visit the place since the sale.

With my post-birthday-do-nothing vacation in full swing, Mr. Lunt invited me up to the cabin for an overnight.

How could I refuse?

When you drive along the Taconic Parkway in upstate New York, you can't help but be reminded that, before the arrival of my people, the eastern half of the United States was just one enormous fucking forest. Looking on either side of the roadway, it's impossible not to imagine the impossibly vast stretches of great old oaks and elms and birch and pine trees that used to cover the landscape like a thick head of hair. You get the impression that, even several yards off the roadway, you'd be lost in some primordial, Middle Earth-like, unending sentient forest.

Kinda scary, actually, for a city slicker like me.

After a couple hours on the road, we made our way into Canaan, which is much like its biblical counterpart; a land of milk and honey – in a metaphorical way.

One of the things about living in New York City is that, either because of the unending grind or the ridonkulous wealth of interesting activities and people (depending on whether the glass is half-full or not), you tend to forget about the charms of Other Places.

I've always enjoyed camping well enough, but my trysts with Nature tend to fall out as short hikes, or day-tripping picnicking -- that sort of thing. Living in a cabin in the woods for a couple days reminds me of my solitary nature.

I could have been Thoreau, had I had an original thought.

Anyway, the Lunts' new cabin is absolutely lovely. It's rustic – there's no mistaking where you are – but is so riddled with charm and quiet and peace that you tend to forget there's no Chinese take-out at the foot of the steps.

Oh, yeah. The property has an easement to Queechy Lake, but it's not right on the lake, which, when you think about it, is a bit of a plus, since during the summer the lake is probably chock full of Summer Folk on their floating party pontoons.

The cabin itself is on a hill maybe a hundred feet above the lake, completely swallowed by that primordial subtropical rainforest. It basically sits on a little ledge halfway up the hill, with a carved-out yard.

Ms. Lunt is a bit of a Martha Stewart-style wizard when it comes to making a place livable, and she's worked some serious magic on the cabin. There's a beautiful garden, a quaint little shed painted to match the cabin and, halfway down the epic staircase to the road, a little way-station bordered in fallen logs, covered with mulch and hosting a little planter and chair for a rest before you assault the summit.

It's really amazing.

I spent most of my three days there thinking, "I could live like this."